Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  Next I stumbled across the slab marking the spot where Savonarola and two other monks had been hanged then burned as heretics in 1498. I distinctly recalled my father describing in rich detail the incineration of the three revolutionary priests. The story gave me nightmares until we left Florence a week later.

  By one thirty, the blazing sun had driven me to seek a cool drink on the terrace of the Caffè Rivoire. Lingering over a bottle of mineral water for a half hour, I watched the tourists flood the piazza, dodging the cars and scooters as they did. I loaded a roll of Tri-X and again screwed the 135mm lens onto my Leica. I shot some of the more interesting-looking people passing by. There was a fresh-faced blonde girl, no more than twenty or twenty-one, crossing the piazza on the arm of a man in his sixties. She didn’t seem to mind his age or, I could only assume, the aberrant behaviors he surely required of her in the boudoir. I considered myself broad-minded in such matters, especially where my own conduct was concerned, so I wasn’t judging the pair for their choice of pastime. But I wondered if she shouldn’t keep the hospital’s telephone number handy on the bedside table in case the strength of his heart proved inadequate for the vigor of their exertions.

  A group of Japanese tourists, outfitted almost entirely in white, marched past on my right, entering the piazza from Via Vacchereccia. Led by a prim man barking orders as he held a parasol high in the air, the group paused briefly in front of the Loggia dei Lanzi to admire Cellini’s Perseus with the Head of Medusa. Then they steered around the Portuguese nuns, who were now transfixed by Giambologna’s Rape of the Sabine Women, and veered off” toward the Uffizi Gallery. A few minutes later, the sisters were gathering before the David again, as if one helping of his nudity had not been enough. When the crowds and traffic thinned, I got some fun snaps of their facial expressions. The long lens was remarkable. Large eyes and covered mouths. One novice in particular looked less shocked than enthralled.

  As I was rewinding another roll of “exposed” film, a stately lady of a certain age plopped herself down at the table next to mine. Dressed in a silken flower-print dress, she adjusted her hat, a kind of blossoming-rose number, and huffed for breath. She waved a foldable souvenir fan in her face before reaching with a white-gloved hand to grab the bottle of San Benedetto mineral water from my table. She dashed some into her hand-kerchief, which she then pressed to her forehead, and uttered a distressed so-sorry but thank-you-all-the-same to me.

  “It’s just so hot, my dear,” she said. “Haven’t the Italians ever heard of air conditioning?”

  A harried waiter materialized out of thin air. He was bearing a Chinese pug, holding it as far from his black vest as his skinny arms would extend. My neighbor glanced up at him, motioned to a spot on the terrace beside her. The waiter dropped the dog at her feet, a tad brusquely I thought, and shook his hands as if ridding them of mucus.

  “Leon, my pet,” said the lady to the dog. Then to the waiter, “Did he do his business?”

  “Prego, signora?”

  “His business,” she repeated, vexed by the thickness of his skull. “Did little Leon do his business? Pay attention, man.”

  The waiter looked confused and explained in heavily accented English that the dog had done no business. “Solo pipì”

  She snorted her dissatisfaction then demanded a tuna salad sandwich and waved him away.

  “Signora?”

  She repeated her order and, when the waiter stubbornly refused to understand, she explained what it was. Finally the penny dropped. He pointed to the salade niçoise on the menu and kissed his fingers to indicate how delicious the dish was. With a theatrical sigh, the lady acquiesced and sent him packing.

  “No tip for him,” she said to me once he’d shuffled off. “Such poor service. But what can you expect from an Italian?”

  Cracking an uncomfortable smile, I asked if I might have my bottle of mineral water back. She nodded.

  “Little Leon needs to keep his regular schedule, you know, or he’s cranky. Where are you from, dear?”

  I explained, leaving out the details of my job as a newspaper reporter for a small upstate New York daily. She wasn’t listening anyway. In fact her attention was on the pug. She cooed and patted Leon on the head, speaking loudly in a singsong baby talk that affronted both her own dignity and the dog’s. Satisfied that her adoration would hold him for a while, she produced a compact from her gigantic purse and set about powdering her perspired nose. She said she was from Philadelphia.

  “The Main Line, to be exact. I’m touring the Continent. What day is this? Wednesday, yes. Tomorrow I’m off to Rome. Then it’s Venice and on to Vienna. Heavens, I can’t wait for this wretched trip to be over.”

  After that, she lost interest in me, planting her nose in a Fodor’s Guide to Italy instead. The book was out of date, 1958; I saw the year on the cover. Hardly heartbroken over my new friend’s snub, I reached down to pet the dog as consolation, but he wasn’t interested in me either. He licked something off the floor then waddled to the far side of the table and plopped down to pant for breath against a leg of his mistress’s bentwood chair. I opened my own guidebook—Baedeker’s—to plan the rest of my day, but a shadow from over my shoulder distracted me. I turned to see who was blocking the sun and discovered a tall, thin man hovering over me. But before I could tell him where to get off, he smiled.

  “Ellie, I knew it was you.”

  “Bernie!” I jumped to my feet, prompting little Leon to utter a yelp and tumble backward in a most lumpish and inelegant manner. He righted himself and took up a sheltered position under his mistress’s chair. I threw my arms around Bernie’s neck. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  Bernie Sanger was the last doctoral candidate to work with my father before his passing. I’d met him three and a half years earlier in New York under the difficult circumstances surrounding my father’s death. We’d butted heads at times during our brief acquaintance, but, somehow, tragedy endured together binds people, even through years, distance, and silence. He’d written to me months earlier to say he was planning to attend the symposium, and I’d been looking forward to seeing him in Florence under happier circumstances. His friendly presence, I was sure, would make the event bearable.

  After a short stroll to Piazza della Repubblica, Bernie and I sat down to a late lunch on the terrace of the Giubbe Rosse. It was too hot and steamy for anything more than one course, so I settled on the spaghetti alla chitarra with fresh tomato and olive oil. Bernie got the same, and we ordered a carafe of Chianti and a bottle of sparkling mineral water —acqua gassata—to wash it all down.

  “You look so handsome,” I said once the waiter had vanished with our order safely stored in his memory.

  Bernie blushed and aw-shucked for a few seconds before offering a reciprocal compliment that I was prettier than ever. But then his good humor evaporated, and he leaned in closer.

  “This news of Bondinelli is tragic,” he said in a near whisper. “Just like that, he drowns in the Arno. What do you think happened?”

  I shrugged. “No idea. The police say they’re not ruling out anything. Accident, suicide, or even something worse.”

  Bernie shook his head in woe then asked me what I thought of Bondinelli.

  “I never even got the chance to meet him. He was supposed to join me for breakfast this morning at the hotel.”

  “I met him once a few years ago. Nice enough man. A little tight. Not at all your typical Italian.”

  “Not a caricature, you mean. What are we Jews like, Bernie?”

  He smiled. “We’re delightful.”

  “What about my father? What did he think of Bondinelli?”

  “He didn’t know him all that well. I remember he told me once that Bondinelli was a middling scholar but a good man.”

  Coming from my father, that amounted to a ringing endorsement. One could never be sure that his estimation of a colleague’s scholarship wasn’t unduly harsh and, therefore, not to be taken at face value. But when
he passed judgment on character, it was money in the bank.

  Bernie turned serious again. “I’ve been worried about you, Ellie. How have you been coping?”

  Uh-oh. Here it comes. “Coping? What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t seen you since you disappeared after the memorial service three years ago. I never got to say goodbye.”

  I fiddled with the fork before me. This was a topic I’d rather avoid.

  “You mean my father? We hardly spoke when he was alive. How should my life be any different since he died?”

  Bernie didn’t have an answer for that. He just squinted into the sun and dropped the subject. I took pity on him and offered a lukewarm smile.

  “I’ve made peace with my dad.”

  That prompted a nod and the lighting of a cigarette.

  “What was it he always said when he wanted to change the subject?” Bernie asked. “Cangiamo discorso.”

  A sad smile crossed my lips. “He had his odd phrases.”

  “It was funny that he liked to use that antiquated form of the verb. And he mined the entire peninsula’s linguistic riches, from Naples to Venice,” added Bernie.

  “Beyond Italy, too. Whenever he wanted my opinion, it was ‘Was sagst du?’ or ‘Qu’estce que tu en penses?’ It was maddening.”

  “I envy you a father like that.”

  “Let’s change the subject, please, Bernie,” I said, purposely avoiding the old Italian phrase my father had used, and lit a cigarette of my own.

  A short time later, the waiter returned with a small basket of Tuscan bread—the kind made with no salt—and our water and wine. We stubbed out our cigarettes and picked at the bread instead.

  “Is it true the Florentines don’t put salt in their bread because of some ancient blockade by the Pisans?” I asked.

  “More likely because the Florentines were poor and didn’t want to pay the tax on salt. Whatever the reason, this stuff is an acquired taste.”

  “I rather like it.”

  “Sure. You’ve just buried it in salt and drowned it in olive oil.”

  And with the word “drowned,” my thoughts returned to Bondinelli. I reviewed in my head the sparse details Peruzzi had provided. The professor had been spotted shortly before sunset the day before—Tuesday— drifting in the Arno under the Ponte Santa Trinita. Since bodies don’t float for days after drowning, it was clear he hadn’t been dead for long. Furthermore, Veronica Leonetti had seen him at breakfast that same morning, meaning the time of death was somewhere between ten a.m. and early evening. I wondered how long the professor had been in the water. And where had he gone in? Surely not from the Ponte Vecchio. Too many people. Someone would have seen. This was Florence in summer, after all. Early autumn to be precise, but still chock-full of tourists with cameras snapping pictures of every inch of the city.

  So had he entered the river farther upstream? At the Ponte alle Grazie, the next bridge to the east? Or Ponte San Niccolò? And how long before twilight had he fallen in? What time had the sun set anyway? I decided to find out.

  “Ellie?” It was Bernie calling me back to the present. “Anybody home?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking of Bondinelli.”

  “It’s very sad.”

  “I’m curious to know when he died,” I said. “Obviously yesterday. But when? Late afternoon? Early evening?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “The difference between an accident and murder. So I’d like to know how he ended up in the river without anyone seeing? Sunset along the Arno is prime sightseeing time, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he killed himself and did it quietly. Waded into the river east of here. No tourists in that part of Florence.”

  I shook my head. “Apparently he was a devout Catholic. People who knew him say suicide is impossible.”

  “I’m sure the police will figure it out,” said Bernie, and we moved on to other topics.

  “Have you met any of the other symposium people at the hotel?” I asked.

  “Just a couple of the students who are helping with the organization. A girl named Giuliana—quite beautiful—and a young man named Tato.”

  “I haven’t met them yet. Just Franco Sannino and Veronica Leonetti.” The waiter arrived to interrupt our discussion, placing two plates of steaming spaghetti before us and topping off our wine glasses. Taking notice of the nearly empty carafe, he asked if we’d like another. Bernie shook his head, but I overruled him. The waiter set off to fulfill the errand.

  “Wine puts me to sleep,” said Bernie, twirling his fork in his noodles. “Especially on a hot day.”

  “I don’t need the temperance lecture, chum.”

  Bernie spooned some grated Parmigiano from a small metal dish onto his spaghetti. “This cheese is delicious. How can they call that stuff in the green can back home the same thing?”

  “I know what you mean. When they first started making it, my father wouldn’t allow it into the house. He called it segatura.”

  “Sawdust? Really?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Yes. And, of course, Elijah and I loved it, much to his annoyance.”

  I felt a twinge, prompted by my own mention of my late brother. Better to push those thoughts to one side. If Bondinelli’s death had upset me, I was sure to crumble if I allowed myself to think of Elijah. “Now that I’ve tasted the real thing,” I continued, steering the conversation back to the cheese, “I can’t imagine eating that segatura ever again.”

  We ate in silence for a long moment. Bernie knew all too well about my brother’s death in a motorcycle crash, and he was giving me a moment to myself.

  “What do you think of the weekend in the country?” I asked finally. “In light of Bondinelli’s death, I mean.”

  “What weekend in the country?”

  Me and my big mouth. “Bondinelli organized a retreat in Fiesole this weekend. A thank-you to the students who helped with the symposium, I believe.”

  Bernie frowned. “I wasn’t invited.”

  “No great loss. I’ve decided to beg off. Under the circumstances, it doesn’t seem right. And if you’re not going, I won’t either.”

  “Don’t stay away on my account. I’ll be fine.”

  “Not another word. I’ll stay here with you and we’ll have a grand time.”

  “How does a professor like Bondinelli afford a country house in Fiesole anyway?” asked Bernie.

  “It belongs to a friend of his,” I said, stabbing at a bit of cooling chitarra strings with my fork. I popped some spaghetti into my mouth, chewed, then swallowed. “A man named Locanda. I don’t know anything about him. I suppose he must be rich if owns a place like that.”

  Bernie shrugged and turned his attention to his food. After a short while he asked if I was seeing anyone.

  “You mean going steady? No. I’m playing the field.”

  Misjudging my answer for a willingness to discuss my love life, Bernie took that moment to remind me of my own dalliance three and a half years earlier with a torturously handsome Italian man named Gigi Lucchesi. I’d indulged in a white-hot romance with him in the days leading up to my father’s death. The memory was not a welcome one for me, and again I tried to dictate a new topic. I asked Bernie to tell me about his new job teaching at Williams. That saw us safely through the meal and to dessert: macedonia di frutta.

  Over coffee, Bernie tried to engage me again in talk of my father, but I can be as slippery as a Maremma eel. I told him instead that I’d been approached by an editor at UPI about a possible job as a feature reporter-cum-photographer.

  “That’s big news,” he said, lighting another cigarette and inhaling deeply. “How did that happen?”

  “Apparently he’s some kind of horseman. He was in Saratoga last summer and saw some stories and photos I did for my paper. A rather sexy double murder.”

  “So what are you going to do? Leave Amsterdam?”

  “New Holland,” I corrected. “I’m not sure what to do. It’
s awfully exciting. A wire service. My stories would be published all over the country. The world. And there would be travel.”

  “Like where?”

  “He mentioned Vietnam, for one. East Pakistan for another.”

  Bernie wondered if the offer was on the up-and-up. I asked what he meant.

  “Nothing. Just that it sounds too good to be true. Maybe he’s just trying to get somewhere with you.”

  I bristled.

  “Putting to one side just how insulting that is to my judgment, what makes you think I’m not up to doing a job like that?”

  Bernie retreated to a defensive position, issuing a full-throated apology. He hadn’t meant it that way. Of course I’d make a wonderful reporter for UPI.

  I let him twist in the wind for a moment like a sad, deflated tetherball on a line, then informed him that I was a fair hand with a camera and had caught a few murderers in the past three years, thank you kindly. In fact, I’d done exactly that the last time I’d seen him in New York. Finally, I explained that I had long experience dealing with men making passes at me, unwelcome or otherwise, and I didn’t need him to tell me what that looked like.

  “I’m sorry, El,” he said once I’d paused to draw a breath. “It was stupid of me to say that. Please forgive me.”

  Bernie surely didn’t realize it, but he’d uttered the magic word. An open sesame for my forgiveness. “El” was the name that my brother, Elijah, had called me, and hearing it still pricked something raw and tortured deep inside me. It always provoked surprise then sorrow. But just as soon, an overwhelming sensation of warmth would wrap itself around me like a bath. I missed Elijah fiercely, but his memory comforted me. As children, we’d walk to school together and he’d protect me. He shared my passions for radio shows and mail-order prizes. I remembered the Cheerios pocket-sized Disney comic books, for instance. We’d clipped coupons and hoarded box tops to win those treasures. In truth, some of the box tops had come into our possession without the requisite purchase, torn instead off cereal cartons at the market when no one was looking.